


In Good Hands

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Romance, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:44:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir has survived Amon Hen, just barely.  Resting in Edoras, Gimli decides his friend needs someone to look after him permanently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Good Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Kellen stood in the doorway watching old Harald’s sure hands change the Gondorian’s great swathes of bandages. It had been a tough day. The beacons of Gondor had been lit, and Rohan had answered. Hasty goodbyes had been said, loved ones ridden off to whatever fate awaited them at Minas Tirith. Rohan had already suffered heavy casualties at the battle for Helm’s Deep. Now they would be hip-deep in blood all over again. She knew it couldn’t be helped. She had learned at Helm’s Deep what they were up against. But just like any of the other Rohirrim left behind she could not be blamed for worrying. Her father and three brothers had left Edoras with the royal family; including Kellen’s friend Eowyn. So much to lose.

She stood there thinking of two things: Eowyn, and a conversation with a dwarf.

Only hours earlier she and Eowyn had stood in the private chambers belonging to the king’s niece.

“What?? What do you mean, they’ll look to me?? I’m a blacksmith’s daughter, not nobility!”

Eowyn pulled hair yellow as ripe wheat back from her face and tied it neatly behind her head. “Aelstan is the king’s armorer, as was his father before him, and his father before that. With the rest of us leaving for Gondor, you and Harald are the closest thing to authority our people will have if there’s an emergency. You’re both associated with my uncle’s house. Edoras will be drained of the vast majority of its officers.” She sighed, remembering. “The few who survived the Deep.”

Kellen pointed to herself and repeated stubbornly, “I hit things and make lots of noise. That’s what I’m good at.” She was a tall, rangy young woman, with long auburn hair, large brown eyes, and when deeply stirred a right cross that could drop an ox.

Eowyn smiled at her. “Perfect! But listen,” she added. “Please help Harald, make sure he doesn’t take on too much. He’ll be looking to keep himself occupied, so as not to worry too much over Ranulf.”

Kellen eyed the other woman sharply. “You’ve been getting me into trouble since we were six years old.”

One pale eyebrow curved upward. “Your point being?”

“I can’t believe I still fall for it.” She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Eowyn, you’re the closest thing to a sister that I’ve got. Be careful, won’t you? We both know that last battle was just a taste of worse things to come.”

“I promise.”

“Liar.”

“I’ll do my best, then.”

Trumpets flared, and men were shouting for everyone to get a move on.

“Fair enough.” Kellen hugged her friend hard and told her, “You stick close to Master Gimli and his friends. They’re an odd lot, but they’ll look after you, if anyone can.”

Eowyn laughed, for the first time in a very long time. “That I can promise!”

 

Two days before that Aelstan had been at the smithy making repairs to King Theoden’s armor. Nearby Gimli and Kellen had been fixing several rents in the dwarf’s mail shirt. It was delicate work, the sort for which she had a talent, but often lacked the patience. Having the dwarf to talk to was novel and pleasant for her, and she knew he enjoyed the sympathetic company of smiths, finding himself so far from the Iron Hills.

He had never intended to tell her of Boromir’s confession to Aragorn. He had not intended to tell anyone at all that his friend had weakened and had tried to wrest the great Ring from the small Ringbearer.

Gimli blanched beneath his vast red beard and glanced worriedly about to see if anyone else had heard, but the young woman’s father and her middle brother were making too much noise of their own to hear.

“Ah, damme! I’ve got a ruddy big mouth!”

Kellen met his dark eyes and reassured him, “I don’t.”

“Thank ‘e.”

He took a deep breath and shuffled his feet. In for a nugget, in for an ingot. “It wasn’t his fault,” the dwarf assured her. “Aragorn told him so, Gandalf has told him so - though he was hardly half conscious at the time, poor fool - but it’s true. Boromir is an honorable man.” Gimli helped the smith hold onto a tricky bit of work so that she could use two hands with the narrow pliers.

“A good man to have at your shoulder in an honest fight. But that’s just the trouble with something like that Ring,” he explained. “The deceit of it. Boromir’s not stupid, but he’s not complicated, if you know what I mean. The cursed thing exploits a fellow’s weaknesses, from the inside out. Boromir’s greatest weakness turned out to be the strength of his devotion to Gondor.”

“And to his brother,” Kellen added.

Startled, the dwarf looked up into her face. She shrugged. “Over time one hears all sorts of things at an armorer’s forge. We’re a lot like a tavern that way. I know a little about the Steward of Gondor’s second son.”

Gimli’s dark eyes gleamed. “If you’ll talk, I’ll listen.”

“Faramir of Gondor is captain of the Ithilien Rangers. Clever, honorable, brave as his elder brother in his own way, but his fondness for letters – “ She gave a sharp look to the dwarf “ – and wizards, they say, turned his father against him. Lord Denethor hardly has a decent word to say to his second son. Hand me that small hammer, the one on the left there.”

“And our friend grew up in such a house,” Gimli pondered mournfully.

Kellen considered that for a moment. “Devoted to his father, but he loves his brother. Ever since he and Faramir were children he has played the intercessor, putting himself between his younger brother and their father’s scorn.”

She shook her head, beat a twisted steel ring into true against the anvil stone. “Since he came of age he has been leader of Gondor’s armies and her defenses. He is the one Denethor always calls to his service, willing or, so I hear, sometimes not. He is the one to whom all turn in times of fear. More and more, Boromir’s are the shoulders all of Gondor leans on.”

“That’s a lot of weight for one set of shoulders,” Gimli observed.

“Yet he has a soft spot for hobbits,” Kellen said.

The dwarf looked at her with the beginnings of a grin. “What’s that?”

“Merry says the man fell trying to keep him and young Pip out of Uruk hands.”

Gimli chortled deeply. “Boromir once tried to teach those two the finer points of sword fighting. In return they taught him the finer points of fighting dirty!”

Kellen held up the mended mail shirt with a satisfied expression. “When you’re small,” she agreed, “that’s often the best way.”

 

Now, she tried not to think too much about the darkness toward which her family had ridden this morning. And Eowyn. And Harald’s son, now attending the king’s cavalry. The old man finished his work, set aside the extra linen neatly on the bedside table and came to stand near Kellen. He looked back at his sleeping patient.

Kellen asked him, “You believe he’ll live?”

Harald nodded. “When he arrived seven days ago swathed in bloody, torn up clothes I did not think so, but today I am thrice amazed.”

“Master Gimli told me he took three orc arrows.”

“Very nasty. That alone should have ended him,” the physician told her, “but he has survived not only that, but the journey to Edoras, to Helm’s Deep, and back again to Edoras, carried for much of the way by his friends over rough country. That, my girl, is a testament to the quality of the company he keeps. Poor Pip hardly got the chance to say goodbye, and Merry was quite loath to leave him like this.” Harald chuckled. “They are a handful, those two.”

Kellen rolled her eyes. “Try the pair of them running loose in your smithy.” She could not help but wince at the memory of a particularly noisy incident involving a rack of spears, a stack of shields, a shelf of helms, and a stream of descriptive phrases the like of which her father only rarely availed himself.

“Of course the Dwarven medicine helped considerably,” Harald admitted.

“Indeed?”

“That little silver flask there on the table. A few drops of that liquor in a bit of water, and he’ll sleep for hours. Spared our fellow quite a lot of pain this past week, that has.” Harald turned and started down the hall. “I’ll be back in a bit to check on him.”

Kellen watched Boromir of Gondor sleep for a short while, then turned away, thinking, “Master Gimli, you are full of surprises.”

There was a rustle behind her. “Pippin!”

Boromir, half awake and muttering urgently, “Merry!” had rolled onto his right side and appeared to be trying to get himself out of bed. Harald had wrapped his left arm to his side, and the awkwardness of it gave Kellen the moment she needed to cross the room in long strides and gently but firmly push the man away from the edge of the bed. She started to call out for Harald, but realized that he had likely already left the hall.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit!_ Shouldn’t Harald have left some eager assistant here to take care of this sort of thing?

Boromir grunted in an inquisitive sort of way, and Kellen looked into his face. He had awakened, mostly, and ran his tongue around his teeth, trying to find proper speech. Kellen helped him to the water Harald had left.

_Look at those green eyes._

_Easy on._

_Just like new grass._

_What?_

_Summer on the Riddermark, those eyes._

_Gahh!_

Boromir watched her in return, finally reaching up to weakly push away the water cup. “Edoras?”

“Yes. Four days past Helm’s Deep.”

At his confused frown, she explained, “You slept through that. Just as well.”

He merely nodded, brows furrowed thoughtfully, trying to catch up. He was, Kellen thought to herself, a very grim looking fellow. Of course, she was not finding him at his best. Without thinking she pushed damp blonde hair out of his face.

“You called for Pip and Merry a moment ago,” she said.

His gaze, previously wandering about as much of the room as he could see from where he lay, snapped toward her, but he said nothing. She noticed something like grief shadow his face, and she told him, “They were here for a little while. Came to check on you often.”

He was clearly as astonished as delighted. Hope changed the look of him remarkably. “Here? How?”

“Fangorn forest. Rescued by a talking tree.”

Boromir blinked rapidly. “A – ?”

“Talking tree. Pip told me. Ents, they’re called. I should have liked to see that.”

“Aragorn? Gimli, Legolas? I… thought I saw Gandalf, but that can’t have been real. Must’ve been dreaming.”

“He’s Gandalf the White, now.”

The Gondorian stared. “…the White? Not dead?”

“He _was_ dead, but now he’s not. Or… well, anyway, he’s Gandalf the White.”

Boromir eyed her narrowly. “Am I dreaming _now?_ ”

“They were all here,” she assured him, helpfully listing them on her fingers. “Gandalf, Gimli, Legolas, Aragorn, Pip and Merry. Or they were. This morning they left for Minas Tirith.”

Perhaps she shouldn’t have told him that, though he’d wonder soon enough. “Everybody. King Theoden, and all the armed riders of Rohan with him.”

“All to Gondor,” he breathed. “So it has finally come to that.” _And little Frodo, and Sam, what has become of them?_ “They left this very morning?” The disappointment on his face was heartbreaking. “I wish I’d… never mind.”

“They’ll be back,” she told him, though she could not be certain it was true. She was hoping. “For now, you should sleep.”

“I’m alright.”

“You’ve gone all grey, and you’re sweating. Don’t worry, I know what to do.” _Though I don’t suppose Harald meant to leave me to do it. I’m not a ruddy nurse._

She reached for the silver flask.

“I… who are you?”

She unscrewed the cap. “Kellen. Friend of Eowyn’s.”

He nodded, then shook his head. “I don’t want to sleep anymore.” The pain in his voice betrayed him.

Kellen found that the cap of the flask could be used as a small cup. The efficiency of the design pleased her. Three drops, and enough water to fill the cup.

“Come on. Gimli left this for you.”

Boromir argued no further, and in just a few moments Kellen watched his eyes roll back into his head as he sank rapidly into blessed sleep. The young smith considered the little silver flask itself, glimmering softly in the firelight as she turned it in a callused hand. Beautiful Dwarven workmanship. Sleek. No more complicated than it needed to be. She tucked Boromir in properly, fiercely resisted a sudden, godawful impulse to pat him on the head, and went to inform Harald that his patient had briefly awakened.

 

She had started out the morning happily enough at the forge, peacefully hammering the living hell out of the iron rim of a broken cart wheel, when The Problems began to arrive. They led off first with one, then with a seemingly endless series of interruptions for small disputes which on any other day could and would have been easily worked out by neighbors, and ended with Kellen forcibly separating two half-grown boys as they ravaged each other like young hounds, rolling and pummeling each other on the ground, raising a cloud of dust in the street outside the smithy. She did not know what had caused the fight. As far as she was concerned that was beside the point. She pulled them apart, shook them severely, and threatened them both with dire physical consequences if she caught them at it again – which, each dangling from one of the smith’s fists by his jacket collar, they well believed. In a mood of general pique and feeling that perhaps an orderly retreat was her best option today, Kellen closed up Aelstan’s forge and headed for the Golden Hall. It seemed as good a place as any in which she might find a bit of calm. No one would dare bother her there for anything less than murder, arson, or an orc attack.

Harald was standing at the small window when she arrived, calmly gazing down on the city as it meandered down the hill. Aelstan’s smithy was just below and off to the right. Boromir had initially been given chambers on the other side of the hall, but the evening of that afternoon Kellen and Gimli had spent mending the dwarf’s mail the Gondorian had for some reason been moved here. She could only assume that it was because the room faced the south.

The old man turned at her arrival. “Ah! Wonderful! I can take a little break, now. My relief is here.”

Kellen stopped in the doorway. “Relief? I, eh…” _Eru, how did I end up here, anyway? Hadn’t intended to come in here, just wanted some time alone._

Harald shouldered his satchel and grinned at her as though she were a bit daft. “I do have other patients, you know. Be back soon, my dear.” With that he was away down the corridor and down the stairs, leaving Kellen standing just inside the Lord of Gondor’s doorway with her jaw slightly agape and wondering if she ought to bring up that idea she had had of an assistant for Harald. Heaven knew there were plenty of wives and mothers about who would welcome someone to fuss over while they waited for news from Minas Tirith.

Well then. She glanced over at the man. Asleep. Good.

A low gleam near the fireplace caught her eye as she entered the room and looked to the right. A great sword in its scabbard leaned against the wall near the mantel. The weapon drew her immediately. She hesitated for a moment as she reached for the leather wrapped grip. A warrior could be mighty possessive about his sword. She looked back at the sleeping man. Feeling slightly thievish, she pulled the great blade from its scabbard, slowly and appreciatively. The steel gleamed in the firelight. A broad blade, with a deep, wide fuller to mitigate some of the weight without reducing its strength. Brass pommel, brass twisted quillions. Simple design, but graceful. Beautiful. Absolutely, blessed beautiful. She caught herself just short of actually whistling in appreciation.

“Careful, that’s sharp.”

Kellen jumped and nearly dropped the sword. “Valar! Don’t startle a person holding an edged weapon!”

She was standing to Boromir’s left, and he had raised himself up awkwardly on his right elbow to face her. “You could hurt yourself with that. It’s not a toy.”

Kellen gave him a withering look. “Gondor, I _make_ swords.” She held the blade in front of her to let the firelight edge it in the dim room.

Boromir’s flyaway eyebrows arched higher. “A smith. That explains the trousers. Thought at first you were a lady.”

Kellen snorted. “Not that I’ve anything against honest smithing, or ladies, but my father made Theoden’s armor, thank you very much – ouch!” Distracted by her irritation at Boromir she had sliced her left thumb on his sword. She sucked on the wound. _Bloody hell._

Boromir grinned at her. “Told you it’s sharp.”

Kellen glared at him. “It needs work.”

“I am perfectly capable of sharpening my own blade.”

“It’s damaged. That means an armorer.”

“I’ll ask your father to see to it, then.” The smile had faded as quickly as it had come. Holding himself at the awkward angle was tiring, and made his left side hurt. He let himself down and draped his forearm across his eyes, trying to breathe slow and easy.

“I can fix this,” Kellen insisted.

Boromir shook his head. “Let it be. I’ll wait for your father.”

Kellen’s voice was low, but hammer-blow clear. “My father is in Gondor, fighting for Minas Tirith.” She slid the blade back into its scabbard, landed it to with a snap, put it back against the fireplace and strode past Boromir toward the door.

“Wait. I’m sorry.”

She hesitated. She had not realized how upset the thought of all her family away fighting made her until she thought it. She had been with them at Helm’s Deep. Shut up with the women and children, but at least she had been there. This was different, so far away. Damned if she’d let some son of Gondor see the look on her face when she thought about that.

“Please.”

_Hell_. She turned.

“I am sorry. Please. Take the sword.” He was up on his elbow again, trying to make amends.

Kellen had the feeling that was not something he was accustomed to. She had three brothers. She was no more accustomed to giving way than was Boromir of Gondor. “Go back to sleep.”

He scowled at her, an expression which over the years had set many a corporal to quivering in his boots. Kellen remained entirely unmoved. He gave it up. “Look, I’m just getting frustrated, lying about here all day, when all my friends are at home, fighting. I feel so…”

“Useless?”

He glared at her. “Helpless. You know if you don’t have time for the sword, say you’ve got horses to shoe, maybe some keg hoops to mend, don’t let me keep you from all that.”

“Then I’d be a cooper.”

“What?”

“If I were mending ale kegs I’d be a cooper, not a smith.”

Boromir clenched his teeth, expressing his feelings clearly, if wordlessly.

Kellen told him, “I just came in here to find some peace and quiet. But what do I get? Insults and an argument. As though I need another one of those today.”

“We are not arguing.” A singular sort of buzzing seemed to be creeping up the back of his skull.

“Yes we are.”

“Fine then, I’ll just lapse back into unconsciousness, shall I, and you can go back to having a nice sulk.”

Without thinking about it Kellen had closed the distance between them, and now she sat at the edge of the bed, looking down at him. “I wasn’t sulking. I was hiding. It’s not the same thing.”

He thought that over for a bit. It was much more comfortable, looking at her from this angle. “Ah. I see. Fleeing the burdens of responsibility, are you?”

“Yes,” she admitted unrepentantly. “Yes I am.” She twisted the silver ring on her left forefinger. “Sorry I snapped at you.”

“No harm done. I’m sorry I was a snob.”

“Look, d’you want something to eat?”

He winced. “No, thank you. But I’d dearly love a great, whacking beer.”

“You’re delusional.”

“No, I’m delirious. It’s not the same thing.” Boromir had slipped into a tired half-grin, and Kellen found she could not keep hold of her anger.

_Not a bad sort after all._

_Pain in the backside._

_Gimli likes him._

_Then let Gimli look after him._

_But Gimli isn’t –_

_Clear off!_

She noticed the sweat beading on his forehead again. “Sleep,” she told him, gently this time. “Do you want some of Master Gimli’s medicine?”

He relaxed into the pillow and shook his head. “I’d rather do without, if I can.”

She rose to go, but he called her back. “Don’t forget the sword.”

His gaze followed her as she moved, watching her fetch the great blade and step quietly from the room.

As he lay back to sleep he muttered to himself, “Strange girl.”

The last thing he remembered as he fell asleep was a tall, broad shouldered young woman walking away from him, with a long red braid swaying down her back and her fist full of live steel.

_There’s a woman could crack you in half._

_Enough._

_Makes ye dizzy just thinking about it._

_I am not thinking about it._

_Yes you are._

_Bugger-all._

 

It was after breakfast, and she was oiling the worn leather of the scabbard for Boromir’s sword when the boy arrived, rushing his pony to a dusty standstill, two of his friends and their mounts skittering to a stop hard behind him.

“Mistress!” He jumped down, breathless, and rushed into the smithy.

She looked up from her pleasant task and frowned. Had to be bad news, she could feel it.

“It’s the wild men. They’re coming.”

She was not entirely surprised. Troubled, but not surprised. “How far away?”

“Half a day, maybe. They’re moving quickly. And - “ The teenager’s adam’s apple goggled. “ - they’ve got wargs.”

Kellen’s stomach lurched. “How many?”

“Almost a hundred.”

She squeaked, choked. “ _Wargs?_ ”

“No no, wild men. Wargs and their riders, four.”

The smith sagged back against the anvil. Lords of Light, she’d nearly had a heart attack. She wondered if perhaps that might have been best. Save her a lot of trouble.

“Probably on their way to Gondor.”

She looked up to see Harald in the doorway, a dozen citizens ranged behind him, worry showing on their faces. News like this traveled fast. She motioned the physician in. People crowded the doorway, and the crowd was growing. They stood silently, listening, and she let them stay, not that she had much choice. “Suggestions, Harald?”

The old man shook his head. “The way I see it, we’ve got three options, none of which I care for much. Run, hide or fight. If we run they’ll catch us and cut us down. If we hide, they’ll burn us out.”

“That leaves fighting.”

“Women, children and teenagers. And old folks like me,” he added ruefully.

Kellen smiled at him. “You’ll hold your own if it comes to that.”

Harald’s son was the same age as this journeyman smith. “I fear it will.”

The crowd behind him shifted nervously, passing the conversation to the people in the back. Kellen looked around her father’s forge. The folk of Edoras would go down fighting if they had to, she did not doubt, but surely there was a better way? Nearly a hundred raiders, and wargs. Wargs were like giant scythes on four legs. Wait…

She reached up behind her and pulled a battered helm from the shelf, where it was waiting to be mended. She ran her fingers over the protective eye and nose pieces. “There may be a fourth option.”

 

Boromir woke just as Kellen carefully leaned his sword into its place against the fireplace mantel. He seemed to have an annoying knack for that kind of timing.

He scrubbed at his eyes and reached for water. It wasn’t easy, one-handed. “Finished already?”

“This morning, but I’ve been a bit busy. Couldn’t bring it until now.” She was edging toward the door. “I’m sorry I woke you. Um, could I send someone up with something - “

“Why are you in armor?” He raised himself up onto his elbow, regarding her keenly.

_Idiot! Fool! How could you come up here in chain mail and think he won’t notice?_ “Ah. Well...”

He frowned. “And I haven’t seen Harald since early this morning. What’s going on?”

She tried to appear nonchalant. “Nothing to worry about.”

Boromir bit out the words. “Kellen, stop slinking toward the door and tell me the truth!”

_Dammit._ “Oh,” she said casually, “a bit of bother with some wild men, couple of wargs. We’ll handle it.”

He gaped. “You’ll handle wargs? Sons of Eru, how?”

_Why couldn’t he just stay asleep? I wonder if I could slip him some of that liquor from Gimli’s flask… no. I’d have to wrestle it into him, and Harald would definitely have something to say about that._

Kellen confessed. “Trickery and bold lies. All the women, teenagers and fit elderly have put on armor. We’ve fitted out our horses and armed ourselves. The children, severely wounded and frail elders are all downstairs in the great hall. If the ruse works, we can drive off the raiders without having to get into a real fight.” She bounced on her toes. “With lots of clothes and armor and our helms on, from a distance you can’t tell if we’re women or men. Everybody’s in their best clothes, strutting about, acting like warriors.”

Boromir groaned. “Never work.”

“I’m quite proud of them,” Kellen told him.

He regarded her briefly. “They are brave folk, I know, but - ”

“Your beard is getting shaggy,” she observed mildly.

He was getting that buzzing feeling in his head again. “My – well, yes. Look, could we get back – “

“Our family’s smithy is just below the Hall. My father’s, my brothers’, and mine.”

Boromir blinked, trying to keep up. “Harald told me you were working on the blade.”

“I hope me working down there hasn’t bothered you the last couple of days.”

“Not at all.”

_Almost like a heartbeat._

_Bollocks._

_Her fire. Your steel._

_Shut up._

_Not every girl can pull off the chain mail look._

_Shut. Up._

Kellen took a deep breath and said briskly, “I have to go.” She was making for the door again, and he called after her.

“Kellen, have you ever actually fought in a battle before?”

She threw him a fierce grin as she disappeared through the doorway, calling back, “Don’t worry, we all know to use the pointy end!”

_“Kellen!”_

The clatter of her boot heels faded rapidly as she lunged down the stairs.

Boromir stared at the doorway, thinking frantically. _Can’t they just hide? Run? Where would they go? Of course they have to make a stand of it, no other choice. Maybe it’ll work._

_They’re all going to die out there._

_Not acceptable._

 

The plan had almost worked. A creative, careful, yet bold sort of plan, a fine plan if any ill-prepared group of townspeople anywhere had ever had one. And it had come that close to actually working. Having expected no resistance whatever, the howling pack of wild men had come to a befuddled stop at the edge of the small city. Shortly they had begun to falter in their resolve, showing signs of having suddenly recollected a prior engagement elsewhere. Then it all went to hell.

In the vanguard of their shadow army Kellen and Harald had placed their few experienced fighting men, walking wounded from Helm’s Deep. It made sense from the standpoint of realism but perhaps the warg had smelled blood. Kellen might never know, and at the moment it didn’t matter. The plan had almost worked, the wild men were on the verge of turning away without a fight, until that thrice-cursed warg, the really big one, had turned back and charged the line. Their ruse had shattered under the sudden shock of such a beast. Now it was a melee royal, but Edoras had gathered her wits and was not finished, not by a long bow-shot. This was their home, and anyone who wanted to take it was damn well going to have to pay for it.

Aelstan had taught his only daughter early on that girls were natural archers. It was a matter of patience in taking the shot, he had said. Today they were proving his lessons. Kellen grinned nastily as she leaped the corpse of a raider, her boot snapping off the shaft of the arrow in his chest as she ducked behind a house. She cursed. They had set one of the houses down the hill on fire. That was going to be a problem if the wind shifted.

Her heart beat madly. Blood colored her blade and spattered her fist. She was both terrified and exhilarated. She had never killed anyone before today, and refused to think about it now. Later she would likely be sick, but right now she didn’t have the time. Shouts and cries filled the air, the sounds of blows, running feet, screams of horses, roaring of wargs. Three wargs. One was dead, by the grace of the Valar, and several very angry wheat farmers who had traded pitchforks for poleaxes. Kellen snuck along a stone wall uphill toward the Golden Hall, ducked quickly to avoid being trampled as a raider fleeing a youth on horseback leapt the wall, followed by the young horseman. The boy missed his spear shot, but brought down the wild man with a solid downward blow from his shield. He wheeled his mount and went looking for more trouble while Kellen jumped the wall and took off up the street.

She nearly tripped over the dead woman. Blonde hair spilled over the ground, helm rolled away to one side. Blood everywhere. Anger moved her forward, superceding the perfectly sensible instinct to flee in the other direction.

She could hear two of the wargs roaring down the hill. One sounded wounded, its voice turning to a shriek of desperate fury that satisfied something dark in the back of Kellen’s mind. _Where the devil is that third warg?_ She hoped she would find the same big bastard that had screwed everything up and started this whole mess. The idea that her heart’s desire might be suicidal did not occur to her just then.

She came out into the middle of the road just before the steps that led up to the Golden Hall, looking right, downhill into a mess of smoke and frantic figures. Looking left she froze. Three dead sprawled on the stairway - two from Rohan, three wild men. Harald had assigned three of the older men to the stone steps rising to the Hall. Where was the third?

She spotted him just next to the saddle maker’s workshop, turned away from her, looking at something down the alleyway, his spear held at ready.

Out of the corner of her eye Kellen noticed a fourth figure. At the top of the stairway, standing before the great doors into the hall she found Boromir of Gondor - tall, armed, and gleaming in his red tunic, darkly stained in his own blood.

Her mind cartwheeled. _What the hell does he think he’s doing up there?_

She noticed movement just as the big warg and its orc rider lunged out of the side-way across the street, quickly trampled and savaged the man barring its way, then whirled and charged for the hall, a juggernaut of muscle and teeth. Boromir drew his sword, widened his stance, and braced himself.

_Kings and ancestors, it'll mow him down like summer barley!_

Kellen was already pelting after the warg and its rider. At the bottom of the stone stairway she caught up and slashed the animal across its hindquarters. The warg twisted in its tracks, bellowing with outrage, and its huge, tusked head slammed her aside as though she was nothing. She ricocheted off the saddle maker's workshop and rolled to a starry-eyed stop against the bloody body of the man who had died moments ago. She snatched up his spear, planted it and herself, eyes shut and expecting to feel the warg’s teeth close over her shoulders, or maybe tear her head clean off. Its bellowing was mind-numbingly loud in her ears, its jaws rammed into her shoulder and one yellow tusk raked the side of her neck as the beast’s weight and momentum caused it to impale itself on the spear, throwing its rider clear and bludgeoning Kellen into the ground. It thrashed in the dust, snarling and clawing at the spear deep in its chest.

Kellen squirmed backwards away from the raking claws and raised herself to her knees, watching half-stunned and unarmed as the orc rider rolled to his feet, jerked his sword from the dying warg’s saddle, and lunged for her. The orc jerked and stopped mid-step, stared in surprise down at the sharp point of the great blade protruding from his chest, and fell on his face in the dirt.

At the top of the steps Boromir sat down with a graceless thud, listing slightly to his right.

Down the hill the screaming had mostly stopped, and Kellen could not hear the wargs roaring anymore. A pall of smoke drifted noiselessly over Edoras. She staggered to her feet, wrenched Boromir’s sword from the body of the dead orc, lurched past the big warg as it lay feebly twitching in the street, and made her way unsteadily up the stone steps to the Golden Hall of Edoras.

Kellen dropped onto the step beside Boromir. _Gonna feel this tomorrow._ That there would also be funerals tomorrow she preferred to forget, just for the moment. She noticed that her hands were shaking, wondered when or if that would ever stop.

She stared down the street, the sun setting low to the left, casting new and odd shadows across the town. Some folk were determinedly dousing the houses that had been set afire. Others wandered looking for friends and family. People gathered, drifting by ones and twos from all sides into the center of the main street and walked toward the Hall. Harald, doffing his helm, his face dirty, blood-spattered, further lined by battle, grinned at her from the front of the group, and Kellen believed she had never seen him looking finer. He and the others, exhausted but triumphant, skirted the dead warg and climbed the steps of the hall, pausing briefly to acknowledge the dead Rohirrim on the stairs.

As Harald and his followers pushed open the big doors behind them, Kellen and Boromir heard the voices of Edoras's children, as yet unaware of the day's cost, reuniting with their loved ones.

She wiped the orc’s blood off of Boromir’s blade onto her torn trousers with a proprietary air. She glanced sideways at the Gondorian. “Nice throw.”

Eyes closed, Boromir sat breathing carefully, his elbows on his knees, head bent low. Sweat trickled down his face and dripped off the end of his nose.

“Neat bit of work with the spear.” _Blessed Valar, girl, I thought you were dead._

She turned to him. “How the devil did you manage it?”

“Manage what?”

“Out of bed, dressed, down the stairs, out here.”

“Stubborn, I suppose.” He finally turned to look at her - red hair coming wildly undone, torn chain mail, a generous coating of dust and blood. _Gorgeous._ “You look like hell.”

She made a face, licked at the blood on her upper lip. “I believe that wretched warg broke my nose.”

“Oo, that’ll be lovely by morning.”

Kellen grinned. “Look who’s talking.”

He laughed, just enough to cause himself pain. “Oww... Hate to admit it, but I don’t think I can make it back up those stairs on my own.”

Kellen nudged him, carefully. “For a man recently not expected to survive the night, you’ve had a very busy day.”

“Harald’s going to be after me for cutting myself loose.”

“I’d say so.”

She rose creakily to her feet and offered him a hand up. “Come on, Hero.”

“You teasing me again?”

“Get used to it.”

“Right, then.” He accepted the offered hand and rose with an unapologetic groan.

She shouldered into his right side, careful of his left as she wrapped her arm about his waist, and they entered the great Hall.

Harald watched them. He stood quietly, dusty and beaming in the dimness of the hall as folk hugged each other tight and began the first of many tellings of the day’s events, children running, careless with relief, their voices echoing in the great chamber.

Boromir and Kellen maneuvered carefully through it all, aiming for the stairs at the back of the hall, the man leaning heavily against the woman’s shoulders as they made their way along.

Harald would tend to the reckless fellow in good time, make sure he hadn’t damaged himself all over again, but for now the physician decided he would leave the two of them alone. He heard Boromir wistfully mention something about a bath, and Kellen’s drifting voice agreeing wholeheartedly.

“You saying I need one?”

“Not your fault. You’ve been preoccupied, not dying and all.”

“Scrub my back for me?”

“Are all men from Gondor this impertinent?”

“Yes or no?” as they turned the corner at the landing and moved out of sight.

“I suppose someone’s got to keep you from drowning in the bathtub.”

“Hey - !”

Downstairs, Harald unbuckled his borrowed armor. His physician’s kit waited for him at home, and his work today was not quite finished. _Well, friend Gimli,_ he smiled to himself, _you were quite right. He is in good hands after all._

\--end--


End file.
